


Again

by Tentabot (orphan_account)



Series: (Don't) Touch Me [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Second Person, Trans Male Character, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 10:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tentabot
Summary: This always happens. This is all your fault. Or so you try and tell yourself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Q slur used self-derogatorily, rape joke made by the victim at the expense of themself.
> 
> Another vent fic. Another warning to those who empathize strongly with POV characters.
> 
> Mirror posted [here](http://brandnameboy.tumblr.com/post/159527081814/nsfw)
> 
> Unedited (for now)

You’ve said too many times to yourself that it’s not the first time.

You say too many times to yourself that it won’t be the last.

The words linger bitterly in your mind as you scrub off the excess grime from your skin that remains from every moment, every time it happens.

It won’t be the last time you drink. It won’t be the last time you see, from the corner of your eye, a gaze linger too much down your body for your liking. It won’t be the last time you get asked about the intimate details of your fluid sexuality how, despite your very masculine-leaning identity, like to fuck ‘other girls’ like you’re all one and the same.

And you don’t mean for that to sound like you’re throwing the entire female gender under the bus. Never. But, as the shots turn into doubles, you do despise yourself for the assumption of who you are. You despise how that’s the only reason why they give you a second glance.

Because you’re not just the queer.

You’re the queer with bits ready for all the straight little boys to get all curious about.

Not even in front of your own doctor do you ever feel as exposed as you do when they lean in and ask in hushed whispers about you. [You feel like your parts are a microphone and your body the podium.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10614915) They continue to wonder and sometimes you wonder yourself though about a somewhat different thing. You wonder if your reaction, your nonchalance for answering, is exactly what they’re looking for rather than a fire in your words before they call you a bitch.

You tire of it.

 

It’s a school night and a friend from your part-time job asks if you’d like to have drinks at hers. As you think over your day you answer with a shrug and a weak grin.

“Why not?”

You tell your mom. She’s fine if you stay the night. 

“I remember the last time you got drunk. Don’t bring it home,” she jokes. “The neighbors will get our landlord on us again.”

You laugh, tell her you love her and hopes she has a good night, and then hang up. There are bottles and cans ready for you to indulge, and you requested tequila and that’s ready too. Unknown to the world, you are hoping to seriously let loose. You have an exam in the morning and some things are due next week but it doesn’t matter as soon as the first shot burns your throat and the heat rushes behind your nose.

You snicker, eyes shut tight as your nose scrunches and your tongue smacks as the taste sticks. You reach for a bottle of wine beside you, open it and let the carbonation of cheap booze hiss, before getting started.

There’s a knock on the apartment door and your workmate groans, rolling her eyes, before she gets up and answers it. The buzz of conversation behind you filters out as you swap wine for cans of bourbon and almost too easily, you think, do you down a can. 

That’s when she introduces you to him. A cousin of her boyfriend’s, she tells you, and he’s waiting for him to come down tonight. You only then process that the invitation for drinks must either be celebratory or an escape from some reality. It makes you smile, wry behind your next can, and you all toast to nothing in particular.

Beside you your phone buzzes. Your own boyfriend, asking how your night is. 

You don’t lie to him. You never do.

You tell him who you’re with and how you’re out for drinks. With many exclamation points after, he wonders why on a school night. You remind him it’s only Thursday so it’ll be fine and he only seems slightly convinced. He wishes you a good night otherwise and you smile. Somehow, through everything, you’ve figured out that you love him and it feels good, warmth spreading through your veins.

Through the night you text him. Through the night they become more obscure and illegible. 

He gets worried enough to call and you’re a giggling mess as you declare your love for him, tipsy and happy, and he asks to be put on the phone with your workmate. You concede, passing the phone over, before taking another shot and nursing another can. 

A song you like begins to play and, funnily, you sing along. Your workmate barks at you to shut up, smiling and shaking her head, and you grin at her as you continue. She shakes her head and goes inside with the phone, shutting the door behind her.

Maybe that’s exactly when it starts. 

The cousin sidles over to you and makes easy conversation. And you laugh and respond, friendly. His name is the same as your boyfriend’s and you laugh at the coincidence, thinking nothing of it. Soon enough, your workmate comes back and you return to drinking.

And you drink. So much. You don’t even realize it until your vision is swimming and your head spins passed the point of fatigue and straight into illness. 

You rush to the bathroom, throw up everything you can. The rest doesn’t come up and your workmate, no doubt far more well versed in the point of wasted you are at, sticks her fingers down your mouth to coax it out. You laugh as it happens, confess that you hoped it did and that you’re sorry for making a mess. She laughs at you, tells you that you’re an idiot, but it’s said with care as she rubs your back and says that it’s alright.

It’s not, you tell her, and you apologize again. She says that if you say sorry one more time that she’ll smack you. You trust her with that one but still apologize anyway, looking up at her from the toilet bowl. She gives you a more gentle look, kicks you softer than you know she could, and leaves you to it.

You lie there for a moment, washing your mouth at the sink before trying to crawl back out. You lay between bathroom and the hall and groan, wondering what made you think it was a good idea. 

“Easy. Up you get.”

You groan again, a bit stronger this time, and you’re helped up back to the toilet to duck your head back in and throw it up again. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

It’s not your workmate. It’s the cousin, tall and wide and smiling warmly as he rubs your back and holds your hair out of your face. You throw up again, a little burp escaping you, and wipe your mouth on the back of your hand.

“You’re real nice,” you slur. “Like, really nice.”

“Well, you’re really nice too,” he tells you as he lifts you up. 

“Put ‘em on the couch!” Your workmate calls.

“But that’s my bed!”

“You’re sleeping upstairs, idiot!” 

He mutters something under his breath before your head hits something soft and you get covered with something softer. 

“Bucket’s beside you, okay?” It’s your workmate this time. You don’t know when she came down but she pets your head, giving it a kiss.

“Okay,” you whine, curling into the blanket.

You hear a laugh, a thump that could be a friendly punch on the shoulder. When you hear the cousin whine you think it could be that. 

You focus on minuscule things that touch your senses for a while.

And then everything fades to black.

 

Sometime through the night you stir to consciousness. Everything is as dark as you remember and your eyelashes flutter in the cold air. It must be hours passed midnight and you feel a shifting beside you. You mumble, not wanting to be disturbed, head throbbing as you shut your eyes to sleep again.

Something warm meets the cold of your skin. You don’t process it’s a hand until fingers sweep over your side to trace the clasps of your binder. Your chest feels more heavy with each hook undone and you hold yourself tighter, wondering if you’re dreaming.

You’re not.

It becomes far more evident when that warmth cups an unbound breast and massages it. Something traces the outside of your nipple before pinching the tip as if it’s all some experiment. You flinch and the sick comes in again, heavy and rising, but you hold it down and try not to shudder even more. Try not to move. You don’t know why this is happening. And you’re scared. This isn’t the first time but you’re scared.

There is something pressing against the seam of your jeans, presumably the other hand of the person, and you try and move away. You’re weak though. You’re no doubt still drunk with how the dark blues of midnight still dance in waves in front of you. You try and roll away, you can feel the edge of the couch, but they hold your waist and sneak a hand under the hem of your pants with only the thin layer of your underwear preventing any penetration.

Your blood runs as cold as your skin. This is real now. This is more than some groping. You can feel a finger press where the heat remains but it’s a heat typical of the human body and not at all of some passion you feel for whoever is touching you.

“It’s okay, baby,” they mutter. 

And you recognize the voice. 

You thought he was nice, helping you while you were sick and even helping you to rest on the couch. God, how wrong you are. He’s not nice at all. He’s just like all the other men you come across and show a remote interest in you. You’re something they can overcome, or turn. Your sex is a token they would like to take from you rather than have it given voluntarily. It’s too easy if you get to decide. So they push, testing the boundaries of your submissive nature because they know you would rather take whatever they gave than cause a scene. 

You feel sick.

So sick.

You’re not alright at all.

This is not okay at all. 

You have a boyfriend. He should know this. You told him. They have the same name and you joked about it with your workmate. Your boyfriend called to make sure you were alright and you sang your love drunkenly. You haven’t even gotten to say those three words you’ve struggled with because of your trust issues with men and now the time is extended as you think of how much you hate them. How right you are about them. How they’re all the same in the end: wanting you for nothing more than a cute fucktoy.

You hold back a noise of protest. If you make a sound then your workmate will wake up and come down. A scene will break out. It’s her boyfriend’s cousin. You can’t-

His hand tries to rub a reaction out of you, trying to coax a moan or something that can be seen as approval so he can keep going, but nothing can escape your mouth when you’re trying not to scream.

-And you don’t. Thankfully he gets bored. Turns over and leaves. And you can’t believe it. Tears are begging to fall free from the restraints you put on all the bodily reactions you could have possibly given. You curl up again, let them fall to the side of your cheek and onto the pillow beneath you. 

This always happens. This is all your fault. Or so you try and tell yourself. You must put yourself out too much. It must be the type. As you lie there, having narrowly escaped something that has happened once before, you think that it must be. Your ex was just the same. Large and friendly, a facade for his true perversions - fetishisms that encompass all you are. 

You remember him and as memories of that night pass you by like a film being put on fast-forward. The shock still remains. It’s been a year and you have no scars to show but now, as you know you’ll recall this night forever, you happen to find that the scars are deep in your soul rather than your skin. You don’t own the flesh and blood and body you spend your conscious time in. They do. They all do.

-

Days later, when your boyfriend offers a kiss in greeting, you avoid him. He asks about your night. 

You lie.

“It was awesome,” you tell him.

-

Days later, your workmate recalls the evening. You pretend to hardly remember it. Perhaps you really don’t. But, as you feel the lining of your binder, you turn to her and ask about the night.

“Did you...undo my binder before I went to bed?” you ask her. She snorts.

“What? What’s that?”

“The bra-like thing I wear to, y’know-,” You kick a pebble in front of you, “-flatten my chest.”

Her eyes narrow, brows quirking.

“No. Why?”

You gulp.

“It was-.” You cough. “It was undone when I woke up.”

The look on her face can only be described as fury, nose scrunched in a snarl, and it scares you. 

The night at hers comes into focus and your arms wrap around yourself as if it was that cold early morning. She grabs you by the shoulders and you’re scared to look at her again because it’s not your imagination but you wish it is only so he doesn’t find out that you know. 

“What do you remember?” she asks, serious. 

And you tell her. You omit details and make it sound like you’re unsure but she grows impatient with your uncertainty until you confess that you’re absolutely sure it was him. Because that voice. You remember that voice. Clearly. Hauntingly. 

She tells you that he made moves on her. That they were together in bed, on the phone with her boyfriend so she can so goodnight, and friendly flirting turned into him wanting more. She told him off for making a pass at his cousin’s girl, making him sleep in the spare room instead. He didn’t go there though. The look of regret on her face is obvious and she looks like she is going to cry.

She’s angry. Hurt that she couldn’t protect you from his perverseness. You laugh.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” you joke. If looks could kill. She glares at you like she wants to slap you for ever making such a joke. You hide in your shoulders as she collects herself.

“I’m sorry.” 

She says it with finality. Like she knows there’s nothing she can do to fix what happened that night. You take a breath, shaky as you hold back your own emotions.

“I know,” you tell her.

In the back of your mouth are words you repeat regretfully to yourself for weeks, maybe years, to come after.

_It doesn’t matter; it’s only going to happen again._

You take those words to bed every night. 

They still ring true in the morning. 

You don’t know when they’ll become numb in your ears but it’s certainly not now.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Orphaning to detach this from my main AO3 account. If you'd like to view the related fics you can find them on my NSFW blog: [brandnameboy](http://brandnameboy.tumblr.com). Sorry for the inconvenience. Continue to stay safe. Adieu.


End file.
